Shallow Sleep
by theonecalledh
Summary: Crowley loves to sleep, and Aziraphale has learnt of its bliss, too. Unfortunately, they did it once together. It is in dreams that one finds the truth... Or not. Lots of angst warning. Don't choke on it.
1. prologue

**shallow sleep**   
Wednesday, 14 August 2002 8:49:31 PM   
hidoko Matsumoto (aka v0id)   
email: voidmatsumoto@yahoo.co.uk   
archive: if you really want, please ask. Scheduled to be at http://xz0ne.cjb.net   
pairing: Crowley x Aziraphale   
notes: a sleep-deprived person writing about sleep… (I am amused)  
  
Disclaimer: copyright of some characters are monopolised by a cooperative of neilgaiman and terrypratchett… 

**[prologue]**

_"so full of joy you were a child of spring/a beauty that is pure/an innocence endures"_   
_-- evergreen, hyde_

Sleep had eluded Crowley for a long time since he last slept, and those days had caused Crowley to be slightly more irritable and high on caffeine. It had almost erupted to the Flaming Car occasion, except that it was just, thankfully, one mile per hour away from frictional combustion.   
Sleep was a dangerous thing, slightly more addictive than tabacco and perhaps just as addictive as morphine. It was in sleep that you could find some peace—Crowley was a minion of darkness and being that, he lived amongst chaos, and peace was just about the rare bits that seemed a little holier than ever to him.   
Holy. Not that holiness was a good thing, given Ligur's fate.   
Yet holiness dwelled somewhere in the half-desecrated realm that was Crowley's memory, from a very distant place, longer than six millennia definitely, perhaps much longer before the Creation of this universe.   
Holiness was the memory of being able to float among the stars and being able to watch the newly-born stars combust. The younger angels liked hiding among the stars, and the older ones gave them names. Libra, for example.   
Aziraphale had been in charge of the Air constellations, while Crowley had been in charge of the Water ones. Which was slightly unsuitable to his original form, but as Aziraphale had said, with quite so much as an innocent smile and goodwill, Fire needed Air, and Earth needed Water.   
Crowley had declined to respond to this little nagging voice that said some millennias later after science was more advanced that Water was Air, as Water consisted primarily of H2O, and since H2O were both air in their purer molecule-states on earth…   
It hadn't been a coincidence that the two of them had been sent to earth, either. Especially after he'd fallen.   
Beezelbub had apparently thought he was a good choice, since he was quite an "insignificant, adaptable little runt" (these words had buzzed straight from Beezelbub's mouths, only they're edited for reading pleasure). And Aziraphale had been sent because he was the purest, and the mightiest, or so according to Beezelbub, who had told Crowley that the best way to win was to either keep clear ("can't have your murky vision be tainted by purity") of Aziraphale, or to directly tempt Aziraphale into succumbing.   
Over the years, Crowley had decided that Aziraphale was harmless enough, especially since he'd watched with wide eyes as Crowley hissed to Eve to eat the apple since it happened to be there. It wasn't really Crowley's fault. The apples were in the wrong place at the right time. Besides, he had never used his sword against Crowley. Adam, however, might have tried if he knew who Crowley were.   
And Crowley wasn't into holiness, be it fire or water. He hadn't been into holy presence either, but six millennia had made him acquainted with it. Specifically, Aziraphale.   
Currently Crowley was certain that his sunglasses were unable to make those eyebags obscure, and had chosen to use smudged liquid eyeliner to conceal what seemed to be slightly puffy panda-effects, thereby creating a more deliberate and effectively more visibly puffy panda-effect. Deliberate was the thing in fashion, at least Crowley thought when he began to make fashion designers see women as some sort of vegetable by the name of "celery".*   
But sleep was something that Crowley would forgo, as the angel had quite inconveniently called him for a gathering at a nearby café despite the current mechanical malfunction. He knew that canned coffee could do the trick, at least for an hour or so, and then it would be enough time for all the ducks in St James Park to scram before he started sinking them.   
Crowley wouldn't have admitted it, but he did miss Aziraphale. The angel had never caught the hang of Ebay, but Crowley did. He'd spent hours jeopardising bids for months on end. And he reflected it would have been worth it, because a) he did get some rare stuff, such as previously unreleased hits by Sex Pistols that somehow should have released but were always forgotten by record companies until bands disbanded, b) he would be ruining days of accountants and bank-tellers as accounts all over the world fluctuate somehow in very strange manners. Hacking had always been his thing—his first job was the one that involved King David's empire. Women had always been interestingly useful tools to hack into strangely complex systems.   
So yes, he did miss Aziraphale. After hours of evil deeds, one could take a vacation and tempt the holy one to teabreak. How evil could that be? Aziraphale, of the Holy and the Almighty tribe**, loved angel foodcakes. Dearly, too.   
Well, that was one of the many things they've had in common.   
Crowley was drumming his five fingers on a teak chair irritably, and sipping a two-shot espresso using the other five. Aziraphale was late. It wasn't like Aziraphale to be late. He glanced at his watch. No, he was early, and that was strange.   
Quite amiably he stared out of the café at the car seething outside of the pavement. Wisps of smoke rose from its glove compartment, and clouded the windshield ever so slightly.   
Hmm. It must have suddenly turned hot outside.   
He also saw a red-faced Aziraphale appear from the corner of the street, cradling something in his arms. From where he was, it seemed like a long-haired kitten, with a blackened nose, too. As soon as he stepped into the restaurant, a waiter approached him, and Aziraphale waved frantically at Crowley before he was effectively ushered back onto the street.   
Crowley frowned, and the kitten had disappeared into a carrier, which had disguised itself as a suitcase. Aziraphale glanced up in Crowley's direction thankfully, and re-entered the café, this time successfully.   
"Sorry sir, but no animals are allowed in here," apologised the waiter, who seemed somewhat embarrassed for doing his job.   
"It's okay," Aziraphale smiled, and hid his suitcase under the table. Sounds of claws being dragged against a leather interior and inconsistent mewing could be heard, until they were muffled by another Crowley's doings. With smooth hands he flipped through the menu, and ordered a Tiramisu cake, a chocolate fudge cake, a carrot cake, plus hot cocoa please.   
"What was that for?" Crowley eyed Aziraphale, a "duh" look stretched upon his lips.   
"Um, well." Aziraphale slipped a glance at the suitcase, "It was in a little cardboard box, mewing piteously, and shivering. I thought maybe my sweater would be slightly warmer…"   
"Cats have claws," commented Crowley, "I thought you'd know that."   
"As a matter of fact they do," Aziraphale eyed his suit. It was slightly… more permeable than usual, and his cheeks had been redder than usual, from the cold.   
"And somehow old books are never safe around them."   
Aziraphale paled, "You don't say!"   
He calmed down slightly as the waiter plopped the tray onto the table, distributed the three platters of cake and a large mug of cocoa, and strolled off.   
"And there'll be more kittens running around your bookstore after a year or so," grinned Crowley, now enjoying himself thoroughly.   
Aziraphale buried his face in the mug of cocoa, and then lifted it after a moment's thought. Cocoa moustache hung on his upper lip. "But we don't encourage declawing or spaying. It's a modern thing, but um, even though those are instruments of chaos…"   
"I'm not saying you have to," Crowley was beginning to think that a bonsai kitten would look absolutely cute placed in Aziraphale's bookstore. Except, of course, he wasn't much into deformity after the rain of fishes had commenced. "Maybe she could grow up to be the ferocious guardian of bookstores and prevent the damned from entering your place before they buy up all your books."   
"Er." Aziraphale glanced down at the suitcase, which was now swaying from side to side. He obviously didn't think so. And neither did the kitten, which was now toppling the suitcase over.   
"Or maybe just keep it as a house pet," added Crowley hastily, seeing that he had flustered the angel enough. "Now eat your cakes."   
Aziraphale looked up at him with large, fearful eyes, "You don't suppose—"   
Crowley knew that his eternal damnation had brought him too many words that would in turn damn himself into the next millennia of cleaning kitten litter. "No. It's your problem, Aziraphale."   
If Aziraphale had dog-ears, they would have drooped. Crowley almost laughed at the imaginary sight.   
"Well, I suppose Newt and Anathema would like some kittens for their three-year-old child."   
The blonde beamed, and began stuffing the slice of carrot cake into his mouth.   
Meanwhile, Crowley had mentally scheduled himself a session of sleeping to do, immediately after tea. Except, of course, things never really quite went as he had planned. Well, if they did, what fun would it be? 

~~~~   
*And for those who are Dieting-But-Can-Never-Succeed-Like-Yours-Truly, it is not Crowley's fault. If men had see women as humans they probably wouldn't have allowed the idea to enter their minds in the first place.   
**Aziraphale was never part of the forementioned tribe. He was more or less a figurehead. And also, the tribe was also known as the Calvary Charismatic Tribe, of the Salvation of Goodwill Through Not Committing Adultery And Charity Going Unto God's Great-Great-Great-Great-Grandchildren's Biblical Computer Programmes. 

C&C welcomed.^_^   



	2. one-dreaming

**Shallow Sleep [one- dreaming]**   
Thursday, 15 August 2002 1:33:11 AM   
hidoko Matsumoto (aka v0id)   
email: voidmatsumoto@yahoo.co.uk   
archive: if you really want to, please ask. Scheduled to be at http://xz0ne.cjb.net   
pairing: Crowley x Aziraphale   
notes: please, c&c. They encourage writers and muses alike. And pleeeaaase tell me if it's too OOC... 

Disclaimer: copyright of some characters are monopolised by a cooperative of neilgaiman and terrypratchett…   
NC-13, slash implications (I refuse to make them say the word "love"). 

_"I called up my friend the good angel/but she's out with her ansaphone/ she says she would love to come help but the sea would electrocute us all. nice dream."_   
_-- [nice dream]., radiohead_

Crowley had, of course, had his dream, for the God who governed the world, despite having planned certain things in store for him in the Ineffable Plan, had also given him enough luck to get into bed in time before a flustered Aziraphale went rushing into the toilet. His face was paler than usual, and he retched into the toilet bowl until all of that afternoon's cake and a bundle of whiskey had rustled their way out of his stomach.   
As for Crowley, he slept on pretty peacefully. Alcohol made a sleepy person sleepier.   
On his part, he had not planned to dream, but he did. 

The Ineffability of all Plans lie in such that an elaborate drama that would suit a) humans and b) God's funny sense of humour ensured that the Plan stayed in place as His Majesty sat in his swivel chair and smiled, eyes twinkling.   
_ Crowley was rather tied up at that moment—or rather, bottled up, as hoax sites had people believe bonsai kittens to be._   
_ "God, sir? Is that you?"_   
_ The figure turned, and it wasn't God. It was Aziraphale, a bright smile on his face. Crowley noticed that he was wearing a maroon vest and khaki, which wasn't all that bad, at least, he thought, it was better than the dream of ShowMeTheMoney Period*. "Not God, Crowley."_   
_ "Not that I believe in God, really." Crowley muttered._   
_ "I heard that." Aziraphale said disapprovingly, "You should believe."_   
_ "Why?"_   
_ "For one, I'm larger than you are."_   
_ In real life Crowley would have poked Aziraphale in the gut with his long chain of Things Which Heaven Lacked Such As Bookstores, but this time, Crowley suddenly felt like Aziraphale could crush him any moment, could pick the jar up, and drop it to the floor, and Crowley could have an unpleasant inconvenience._   
_ But in dreams, metaphysics were different. Crowley also knew that he was trapped, even in consciousness, and if the jar fell, his soul would break up, into a thousand fragments, and disperse into that dream world._   
_ Aziraphale smiled, and picked the jar up with his chubby hands. He touched the jar gently. Crowley found himself being transformed into a kitten, and he scratched at Aziraphale's vest, mewing when his claws got stuck between the fabric and Aziraphale pried his claws free._   
_ "I picked you up from the cold, remember?"_   
_ Crowley mewed, and scratched Aziraphale on his hand._   
_ Aziraphale blinked, and smiled, to Crowley's annoyance. He patted Crowley on the head, and scratched his ears, and Crowley found himself purring, and biting Aziraphale's hands, and purring._   
_ And all the while, Aziraphale's form seemed to be getting bigger and bigger, until he towered directly over Crowley. His fingers were gigantic and could easily crush Crowley, and as they patted him one last time, he felt his skull crack, and he mewed, and he mewed, and he mewed…_

Crowley had not dreamt about Aziraphale in such a strange way. Previous dreams had involved Aziraphale's appearance in hideously tasteless clothes, and embarrassing him in public and such of the like.   
Never so deviously endangering.   
Crowley heard somebody puking in his toilet, and chose to cordially ignore that while he flipped over. Some days you just couldn't get a proper sleep, he mused.   
"Crow… Crowley!" A voice gasped.   
He found himself bolting upright upon recognition of the voice. For one, he was half-naked, and his mind was recalling strange memories from after they had drunk and forgot to sober up. It was strange; they usually remembered.   
Oh, and Deftone's Change was on the CD player. He remembered vaguely swaying to the tune of that song… Goddamn.   
And he hadn't known that the angel was good with his tongue, too.   
Aziraphale darted out of his bathroom in a robe. He was red to the root of his ears, and Crowley thought for a moment he resembled a certain holy man called Raspurtin. Or at least, the first time he'd seen Raspurtin dash across the room naked upon realisation that he'd just done something very wrong—the poor boy had been barely fourteen.   
"Er," Aziraphale froze as soon as he saw that the demon was sitting up straight and was laughing at him, "What exactly happened?"   
Crowley's eyebrow raised itself. "You have no clue?"   
Aziraphale blushed, and hid himself behind a couch. He shook his head.   
Crowley laughed, and said, "I'm not so sure if I'm awake, either. Some days you just can't tell."   
Aziraphale chuckled nervously, and gradually the chuckles evolved into laughter, and laughter evolved into chokes. Aziraphale tried patting Crowley on the back, but Crowley slapped his hand away, and glowered with menace.   
"Hands off, angel." He sputtered, and Aziraphale withdrew his hands in shock.   
The holiness… It felt wrong.   
"Don't touch me," He shoved the angel away, and faced the window as Aziraphale tumbled down onto the carpeted floor. He pulled on his shirt, and kicked the sheets out of the way.   
"Crow—"   
"You know what happened," Crowley muttered, "You couldn't have not known."   
Aziraphale shook his head, hands wrapped around his ears. Pale gold hair fluttered about that beautiful face, and settled around it. If Crowley had chosen to lift his gaze and face that angel, he could have seen that the shell of the angel was crying.   
"I didn't tempt you, did I?"   
"The alcohol bit…" Aziraphale whimpered.   
"I didn't invent it. Don't blame it all on me."   
_ Denial. Denial. Denial._   
Everything was suddenly caving in. 

Sleep was the only touch of heaven that Crowley had got, of the early days, before they knew what the word "interesting" meant. Those were days that satisfied everyone, including even Crowley, who had wandered around the cosmos tending stars and playing with Aziraphale.   
Hell had known whom Crowley had grown up with. That was part of the reason why they'd sent him down in the first place.   
Crowley had not forgotten those times, when all were wrapped in eternal gauze that healed all wounds of the soul. Then souls began to split, from the stars.   
And he remembered, from what he had seen of God, that God was always sitting behind curtains, and the tone of voice with which he'd spoken with was always one full of mysterious smiles, the kind that makes you feel like boxing people's ears.   
Crowley hadn't felt that way then.   
Then there was the darkness that seemed to engulf him. He'd been Lucifer's companion, and Lucifer was the role model for Napoleon. That guy had charisma, and all he said made sense.   
"Why pray to the light?" Lucifer had said, "Darkness conceives it."   
Crowley had admitted that Lucifer made sense. Then, after the first seas of blood and after many stars had exploded, Earth formed.   
Metatron said to Beezelbub, "Look, God is making our chess game. It's all part of the Great Plan."   
Crowley had been Crawly then, and Aziraphale had been sent down. Crawly had raised his eyebrows and said hi. Their friendship from before had been long forgotten—Aziraphale gazed at him with impossibly innocent eyes. Crowley knew that even if Aziraphale knew of the days when he'd hid behind the stars and wished for the war to end, he wouldn't have felt much, because he knew his side was the victor. More or less.   
Crowley didn't want anyone to win. He just existed, and had wanted to continue to exist for a longer period of time, without knowing why disappearing into void was undesirable.   
A few millenias down the road, he had asked quite a few times, "What's the point?"   
And the fact was, well, he saw no point. Aziraphale hadn't provided a good answer, either. The Point was, he had explained, the Great End and the Ultimate Victory. So what was the point of the Ultimate Victory? Er. Not that I'm being patronising, but really, one can't help but wonder…   
He knew that he had gotten Aziraphale to question, as well. But Aziraphale never agreed with him enough to disobey.   
Perhaps, Crowley knew, it was because both of them had no place to run to. Romeo and Juliet got it cut out, because they died, and dying was a way of evolving into beings in different planes. A good escapism, that.   
But Crowley knew that if he died he would have died again, and again, and again. And so would Aziraphale.   
It was almost like getting their wings ripped off countless of times, and restored only to install the memory of pain. Crowley's wings had been carefully groomed not because of vanity, but because it hurt all the damn time, when his wings had been ripped off during the first war, and messy feathers poked into the delicate skin underneath. The fact that those wings were immaterialistic made it all the more painful mentally.   
And the fact that he could escape from this mental torture through sleep made him love it more. Sleep rejuvenated him, as if he had been placed in the Beginning all over again. Even if it was a vague memory of innocence that didn't befit his current self. 

"I… I'm going back," Aziraphale stuttered, and vanished.   
Crowley was still wondering if he was dreaming as he saw the angel tremble in the cold, and wished a crimson sweater on the angel. That made Aziraphale cry even harder, but somehow, Crowley felt colder than before.   
Tears. There were so much tears that somehow it seemed like it would overflow, and drench the entire sky with its weed-blue, and manifest its melancholy into a thousand blooming flowers, so that in the end everything would be immersed in its gentility. Then everything could cry.   
And then souls could feel cold, rightly, too.   
He wondered if Aziraphale had enough sense to use antiseptic, because human bodies were fragile, and the last thing he wanted was for Aziraphale to be a broken toy, like all the others had been. He knew that Aziraphale would sooner know how whales mate than how humans did. He wondered if he had been slightly violent, and decided he was slightly passive at times, so it should have been okay.   
And he slept again. He wasn't sure why, but when he woke up, where his face was buried into the pillow, the cotton fabric was drenched. 

~~~~   
*That was during the Gold Rush—Aziraphale had given Crowley a few nightmares afterwards, what with his incredible sense of dressing and all. 

C&C welcomed.^_^ 


	3. two-news of antichrist

**Shallow Sleep [two- News Of Antichrist]**   
Thursday, August 15, 2002 9:27:31 AM   
hidoko Matsumoto (aka v0id)   
email: voidmatsumoto@yahoo.co.uk   
archive: if you really want, please ask. Scheduled to be at http://xz0ne.cjb.net   
pairing: Crowley x Aziraphale   
notes: Yay! I swear Medical Certificates belong to heaven. School was brought about by hell. Erm, and for a moment I can't decide if spraying harmful alkaline substances into your eye belongs to either. Maybe it's just human. 

Disclaimer: copyright of some characters are monopolised by a cooperative of neilgaiman and terrypratchett…   
angst, PG. 

_"But I Can't Help The Feeling. I Could Blow Through The Ceiling. If I Just Turn And RUN and it wears me out./ if I could be who you wanted all the time…"_   
_-- fake plastic trees, radiohead_

The angel had never understood the demon's preoccupation with sleep, but he had realized why, now, as he had cried and allowed himself to be lulled into the dark chasm.   
There, there had been no hurt. Just eternal rest, or at least what would have seemed like eternal, if he hadn't woken up suddenly and bolted straight up. It was because of the dreams.   
Dreams that had nagged vaguely at Aziraphale's consciousness, and were blown full-fledged into desires in his dream.   
Aziraphale glanced up helplessly, wondering if the Metatron had anything to say about everything. He didn't want to fall, but it was hard*. It had never anybody's fault, that wandering in the realms of dreams had caused him to see everything as they were, purely, in raw forms of emotions and guilt.   
And Aziraphale didn't want to wake up, at all, upon realizing that it was the only escape he could be capable of.   
He didn't want to wake up and pray.   
He knew all too well that confession wasn't enough. 

_ Wandering. Crowley walked along the street, lonely, dismal, and small. He mewed desperately, and found a corner of the street to cuddle up to. In a small, dire corner, tired legs wrapped against his body._   
_ He closed his eyes, and waited for the body to expire. It was cold, so cold. And that current reality pinned him down into a powerless little kitten awaiting his fate._   
_ An angel stepped out of nowhere._   
_ "I'm here to fetch you," he said, and smiled._   
_ And Crowley had smiled. The figure seemed to glow with radiance, and whitish blonde hair shimmered in the sunlight._

_ It had been long ago, Aziraphale remembered. He was wandering the universe with his other half._   
_ He gazed into his eyes, and saw his own reflection in the clear mirrors._   
_ And he smiled._   
_ He was walking through the beginning with his other half—they had no names for companionship. It wasn't friendship, or love. Just companionship, the way two souls felt complete when they were together, as if they were previously one**._

_ Crowley purred. He rubbed himself against soft hands. It was warm and white, and Crowley had never felt so comfortable, even though he usually hated white as much as he hated light._   
_ But this time it was okay. He was a cat._   
_ He wormed his way out of the immense gentility, and soon he was chasing a butterfly. He fell, into the ditch. And wailed, and wailed._   
_ Hands picked him up and stuffed him into a suitcase._   
_ He scratched against the suitcase. Let me out… Let me out… Let me out…!_   
_ Let me out, damnit!_

_ Don't leave me, he said._   
_ I have to, the other's face was contorted with sadness that could have drenched the entire universe. I can't stay with you._   
_ Ignorance is bliss. You can't win just because you know more. Just because—_   
_ Why can't we try? he retorted, I would like to have a chance. So would Lucifer, and Hastur._   
_ Pain stabbed at his being, You would follow Lucifer than follow me?_   
_ He shook his head, It's not… Lucifer. It's the choice. I want to be given a choice._   
_ We all have the choice. It's just that we don't choose to do it._   
_ If we all have the choice, then why does God say to defy him is a sin?_   
_ We have the choice but we have to face the consequences. It's ineffable. It's the way it works._   
_ Well, then I'd like to see what's the worst he can do to me. Destroy me? I could die, I could afford to. I didn't ask to be created, for eternity and henceforth. He touched Aziraphale gently, stars twinkling in cosmic hands, You don't understand, do you?_   
_ I can't._   
_ I know._   
_ Why don't you want to live? Existence is okay. We can be happy. We are happy._   
_ He pulled his hand away. Those eyes, twinkling like a thousand nebulas, fell away. I don't think I can be happy this way._   
_ Is this all not enough? What is it that you desire?_   
_ …_   
_ …Can't you live for me?_   
_ …_   
_ Am I not enough?_   
_ …_   
_ Please._   
_ …Sorry._   
_ Don't leave me. Please._   
Don't…   
Something pressed against his chest painfully. He felt as if he was submerged in a thousand miles' deep of water, struggling to surface, without even knowing why.   
Aziraphale'd forgotten to breathe, but that was okay.   
He woke to the soft air wrapping around him, as opposed to the raw mental energy that had existed in Dreams.   
He struggled to remember the face of the other angel. It had been from long ago, he remembered. He just couldn't place his hands on whom it had been, that had caused him so much grief and loss. 

AZIRAPHALE, WAKE UP. YOU ARE NOT MEANT TO SLEEP. SLEEP IS AN INDULGENCE THAT YOU CANNOT AFFORD.   
Aziraphale raised his pale eyes, and saw the Metatron, "Good morning."   
The Metatron would have been frowning if Aziraphale could see him frown. Then again, the Metatron had never sounded friendly after the confrontation in the would-have-been Apocalypse. Especially not on mornings.   
"Sir, is there anything I should be doing?"   
Metatron tried to say it as loftily as possible (only ending up sounding like he had something stuck up what would have been equivalent of an a-ho), THERE ARE SIMPLY MORE THINGS TO DO BESIDES SLEEPING. OUR DEAR LORD HAS PLANNED THE NEXT GREAT PLAN…   
Briefly Aziraphale wondered if he could get an insurance before that, in case the bookstore was destroyed and never restored.   
AND THOU SHALT NOT SLEEP.   
"It wasn't mentioned in the holy book," Aziraphale mumbled.   
WELL, NOW IT IS. FOR ANGELS ONLY. UM. WHERE WAS I? OH YES. THE NEXT GREAT PLAN. THE ANTICHRIST MIGHT HAVE LOST HIS POWERS, BUT WE HAVE FOUND ANOTHER SUITABLE CANDIDATE.   
Aziraphale wondered if it was Crowley's job instead, but chose not to comment.   
YOUR NEXT TASK IS TO UNCOVER HIS MASK, AND TO INSTALL GOODWILL IN HIM—HE MIGHT BE GROWN UP NOW, BUT NONETHELESS, REDEMPTION IS NEVER TOO LATE.   
Aziraphale was glad that ineffability was never mentioned. "Oh dear… Where is the Antichrist?"   
THAT'S FOR HIM TO KNOW AND YOU TO FIND OUT… BY THE WAY, THEY ARE KNOWN AS MARILYN MANSON (AND SOMETIMES THE SPOOKY KIDS). REMEMBER TO GET AN AUTOGRAPH.   
Poof.   
"Oh." Aziraphale sighed. He thought of Crowley. He should be contacting Crowley now, he thought miserably. But how could he when Crowley seemed to be mad at him? Also, nothing justified the implications of…   
He couldn't think properly. Maybe he should be confessing to God, his father whom he dearly loved. However, insofar as Aziraphale had lived his life, the Almighty was never seen to be mingling with angels. Only the Metatron was to speak to them. But how could one talk to God?   
Aziraphale prayed.   
Forgiveness. Please. I've done something wrong. Please forgive me, please. And it hurts me to even say what I did wrong…   
Look, said a voice, and it wasn't the Metatron, Voice of God. It was somewhere on the inside of his angel-brain speaking, if He hasn't told Metatron that you were a sinner, and that you were fallen, you haven't sinned.   
But I've sinned. I… I allowed Crowley--   
You have not. Crowley tempted you.   
And I gave in--   
Look, if you had fallen, it would have been a lot more painful, wouldn't it?   
Crowley wouldn't speak to me anymore, he concluded miserably, choosing to avoid the issue altogether. Afterall, there was always Crowley, who could hardly be ignored—he was the only one who was there.   
The Other Half. Aziraphale felt something that would have been his heart ache, upon remembrance of the dream. It was showered with nostalgia like the night sky, bits of tears glimmering upon unfolding itself. Those events… Aziraphale had hardly remembered what happened. And he could hardly remember who was the Other Half…   
If his Other Half wouldn't stay for him, he concluded, Crowley wouldn't. After all, the Other Half was an angel, and Crowley was a demon…   
No harm trying. Besides, he had left the kitten at Crowley's place. If there was one thing that he had to face Crowley for, it was some other lifeform's fate. 

Crowley slept, and he slept. He was only awakened by the loud mews and the sound of a rolling suitcase***, and the feeling of a holy presence near his apartment.   
He willed the door open.   
The angel stood at the door bravely. Crowley noticed that he was still wearing the red sweater that he had wished upon him. The red contrasted very well with the platinum blonde hair and those ice-blue eyes. "Aziraphale."   
"Crowley," said the angel, as a flash of pain crossed his face, "Where is the kitten?"   
Crowley glanced at the suitcase. The angel wordlessly advanced towards it, picked it up, and turned to leave.   
"Aziraphale."   
He paused, and turned to face Crowley.   
"Do you think you need some antiseptic?"   
Aziraphale shook his head, and smiled wryly, "Angels can heal."   
"Oh." There was an awkward pause.   
"…Thanks for the sweater. I like it very much, Crowley…"   
"You're welcome..."   
"Crowley, the second apocalypse is near."   
"I know-- Aziraphale, you know it's my job."   
"I know, and I'll do mine, too." The angel smiled, and disappeared away into the corridor, and down the stairs.   
"Thanks anyway," whispered Crowley. 

_~~~~_   
*Particularly where alcohol and a certain demon was involved. Well, he had the potential anyway.   
** It wasn't quite as difficult to find the other half of one's soul in those days. The troops had freshly broken quite a few souls after they excavated the Universe in the first war.   
*** It took a lot of effort on part of the kitten, given that suitcases were rectangular. 

C&C welcomed.^_^ 


	4. three-the first redemption

**Shallow Sleep [three- the first redemption]**   
Friday, August 16, 2002 3:08:31 AM   
hidoko Matsumoto (aka v0id)   
email: voidmatsumoto@yahoo.co.uk   
archive: if you really want, please ask. Scheduled to be at http://xz0ne.cjb.net   
pairing: Crowley x Aziraphale, teaser appearance of Marilyn Manson (without the Spooky Kids).   
notes: Er… As a matter of fact, it was originally meant to be satire. Well, mood changes, so I reckon it's less of satire now, although I should still stuff some of that interesting ingredient in. But um, well, for those who can't stand real people appearing in fanfictions, please don't read this. This is a Marilyn Manson in an alternate universe. It never really happened on this plane, unless the real one claims so. No blasphemy (or slander) intended. …And yes, I suppose I could claim to be somewhat of a fan of his, ltoo. Just a random confession. 

Disclaimer: copyright of some characters belong to neilgaiman and terrypratchett…   
angst, NC-13, violence. 

_"If you have sins let me take the punishment/If you want to kill someone then let's kill him/If you hold a knife out to me/I think I will shed my blood without further thought"_   
_--taste of love, L'Arc~en~Ciel_

It was quite widely rumoured that the angel Aziraphale loved his other half, and would have given anything to bring him back, so much to the extent that he had gone insane and slain many demons in the Great War.* It was a sad story, they had said, and shook their heads in empathy. A great many had fallen along with their other halves-- it took alot to stand your own ground and not budge.**   
The Metatron understood this—his other half was Beezelbub; that he remembered clearly. Before the two of them stood on different sides, they had been wandering the universe, hand-in-hand, smiles meeting smiles.   
And Metatron knew all too well what it was like to dream. It was a bad thing, a cry from your deepest inner soul to wake up, to stop sleeping and dreaming. A cry that tells you that if you continue living in that escapist realm, you would be blown sky high, never to return to the plane, a soul lost in a black hole.   
Metatron had been there. 

And so had Crowley. He had followed a dream from long ago, when he had slept for two centuries straight, to the path that would have led to the black hole. He had been tempted to take it, but for the first time, he resisted.   
There was one particular thing about black holes. You could not see an ounce of light in there; all light would have formed endless blackness, like colours of the rainbow contaminating each other till all was black.   
The dream of the beginning of the universe…   
He wished that he hadn't remembered it so clearly, but apparently it was pretty hard to rid himself of it. The first thing he'd done that century when he woke up was to search for Aziraphale, and invite him to lunch. They had talked. Back then Aziraphale had a different body; although he was a blonde then, his hair was a dirty blonde that somehow fit into the industrial revolution all too perfectly. And his body frame was slightly smaller and thinner. His eyes had never changed, though. They remained as blue and as clear as tinted glass balls with the sky reflected in them.   
It was also the first time Crowley had killed someone in the name of the angel. The first time that he had even given consideration to the thought of losing Aziraphale completely—to the abyss of sin.   
Shortly after lunch, Crowley had pretended to disappear. He withdrew his aura so that Aziraphale could not sense him, and dropped in after a few cups of morning coffee. At that precise moment, Aziraphale had been tending his bookstore.   
His body was looking perfect, the way it always did, mainly because it was Aziraphale's soul that was in there. The fact that minions of Good and Evil had male bodies on earth was due to a very practical reason—women had no place since the ancient times. Men were less susceptible to witch-hunt than women. Men usually were killed while the women were raped in wars. And men were mostly the ones doing all the deflowering in Victorian times. In short, they supposedly suffered less inconveniences.   
But Aziraphale's being male had only attracted the attention of certain people who had certain interest.   
This had occurred shortly after the publication of the Diary of Mary Anne and the convention at Hyde Park, both of which Crowley had found amusing to learn of.   
A demon could voyeur for hours on end, perhaps years even, whatever was needed of him. He watched as Aziraphale hurried about his own business, dusting books here and there, visiting the publication firm two blocks away, and perhaps humming an ancient tune every now and then.   
Aziraphale had always been _harmless_. He wouldn't thwart Crowley's schemes unless Crowley invited him to.   
Watching, from behind street corners, and occasionally on rooftops. Crowley had named himself that for a very good reason.***   
Aziraphale was visiting a Stevenson then, with a first-press_ Jerkyll and Hyde_ in hand.   
Two men came in. Both were of strong in human terms, and they had been watching Aziraphale for quite some time, too. Crowley had known of them, but had not chosen to do anything about them, partly because they seemed pretty harmless to him. Even more so than Aziraphale, because they were _humans_.   
But humans were capable of evil worse than what Hell could have. Hell was quite like a modern underground scene (although it was, more or less, literally so, what with the magma and all that)—its minions had a set of principles to follow. Humans were like an underground scene without the scene. Some of them had no principles.   
They had followed Aziraphale from his bookstore through the streets, until they reached an alley near the middle of nowhere. The lights were dim where they stopped him, in the alley. Told him to stop, they wanted to "examine" him closely. And he did, in confusion. Crowley noticed that these men were dressed in what bourgeosie would have worn, and also that Aziraphale wasn't particularly rich.   
"Incongrous faggot," They had said, and laughed.   
Aziraphale was shoved against the wall, and he had gritted his teeth and started counting to three. Crowley knew that the angel had a habit to be kind even to aggressive people, and that generally meant that he would only wish them away once they actually lifted a fist or held out a knife. This sort of thing had happened before, and Aziraphale never suffered more than minor bruises.   
But this wasn't anything of that sort. Large hands groped Aziraphale. The angel let out a cry of surprise, and gradually was rendered helpless, not because he wasn't strong—because it was all too unfamiliar a realm for Aziraphale to tread.   
That realm was a landmine that turned all vaguely humane into meat chunks.   
Crowley watched as the angel was near to being defiled, until he could stand it no longer.   
Aziraphale's whimpers echoed into the shadows as Crowley swooped down, blood dripping from his claws.   
"No, Crowley—" Aziraphale had exclaimed with wide eyes, but blood had seemed black as it rained onto the angel's pale skin.   
"They would have caused you to be fallen," hissed Crowley, his eyes glinting in the dark. "They deserve more than death."   
"I thought… I thought…"   
"Don't blame it on me. Who do you think I am? Hastur or Ligur? I didn't fall for the same reasons as they did."   
The angel convulsed slightly, and began crying.   
It was then that Crowley couldn't have described how it felt. It was the exact same moment pieced from shards of dreams, where he had been sleeping, to form the reality that wove around him at that moment. He stood there, dumbfounded for a moment by the immense déjà vu, then allowed himself to be overwhelmed by the overpowering emotions.   
These emotions hadn't come from Crowley's self, ever.   
He felt… violated. As if the touches on Aziraphale's body burned on his own, and those handprints had been embossed into his own soul, scalding the very essence of his consciousness. And he felt ashamed, at the thought of having to face God with that body, of having to explain and perhaps confess what happened. And he felt like he was being thrown away by the world—by the universe—by his other half.   
Crowley couldn't have felt those emotions. He was the one who had chosen to fall, long ago, when he discovered the logical fallacy in everything. The Arrangement, the Great Plan, everything. He couldn't have felt violated, because he had already tainted himself a long time ago.   
And yet he did, as he stood there, fingers stained with the blood of two human beings.   
He touched Aziraphale's cheeks gently, and held the angel tight. Then his own feelings emerged. It was regret, perhaps.   
"It was… all my fault."   
"No, Aziraphale…"   
"I killed them… I watched them die. Their blood was the same as those fallen angels'… And they had no chance to even cry out…"   
So this was the memory that had lain nestled in Aziraphale's mind, haunting him all along. Crowley shivered, as his wings felt like they were being torn apart all over again in that Great War…   
"Forget it, Aziraphale, it's all over."   
"I tore their wings… Even though Metatron told me to… I can't forget the cries, Crowley, how can I forget it?"   
One of them was me, Crowly would have said, if he could, your Other Half.   
He said nothing. He drew Aziraphale's body close to him.   
The angel glanced up with tearing eyes, and said, "Kill me, Crowley. I want to know what it is like to die."   
Crowley felt pain, and he wasn't even sure if it was his. If ridding Aziraphale of his shell meant that all his sins would be purged… It would have hurt him to know that Aziraphale would be condemned, and for the first time, being a demon, he prayed. Prayed for Aziraphale's redemption.   
"I'll kill you, Aziraphale, but there is a price to pay," he whispered hoarsely, "I'll let you know what it's like for the angels whose wings you tore."   
Aziraphale's eyes slid close, and he nodded.   
Crowley's fingers trailed across Aziraphale's porcelain skin, leaving trails of burn mark underneath, and where there was contact Aziraphale's human form was scorched red hot. It burnt, and Aziraphale cried, and cried, and cried…   
Crowley didn't stop.   
Somewhere in the same part of his soul where dreams were experienced, he felt Aziraphale's relief soothing him.   
_ Heal me,_ the voice seemed to be saying, _because I lost the other half of my soul. If my suffering could redeem us both to holiness, please…_   
And Crowley had laughed, velvet tearing in silence. Meanwhile, tears seeped from slits of gold. 

Bryan remembered vaguely standing in the middle of the field, when a star fell. He'd wished that he could show them all, show that he was worth something. And he happened to be standing there when the star fell.   
It was said that light took billions of years to travel to earth.   
And one of the stars that fell billions of years ago was the an angel, who had chosen to follow Lucifer.   
Bryan knew that from then onwards, he would be perfect. He would be whom he wanted to be. All that anyone ever wished they were.   
The ultimate antichrist. 

~~~~   
* It was partly true. The angel loved his counterpart. The partly false bit was where he had gone insane and slayed many angels. The Metatron had chosen Aziraphale because he was one of the strongest angel, first-class in sword handling, simple as that.   
** Such as years of practising kungfu.   
*** No, Crowley wasn't a fan of _The Crow_. He was, however, a closet fan of _Batman_. 

C&C welcomed.^_^ 


	5. four-superstar antichrist

**Shallow Sleep [four-superstar antichrist]**   
Saturday, August 17, 2002 7:59:24 AM   
hidoko Matsumoto (aka v0id)   
email: voidmatsumoto@yahoo.co.uk   
archive: if you really want, please ask. Scheduled to be at http://xz0ne.cjb.net   
pairing: Crowley x Aziraphale, appearance of Marilyn Manson (without the Spooky Kids).   
notes: I feel like I'm writing an entire sequel altogether… I scared. So, er… I don't think gaiman and prat(hehe)chett meant Brian to turn out to be some psuedo rock star, but we'll make the best of it while we can. ^_^ (whee!-> morning caffeine perks) 

Disclaimer: of course, my writing sucks, and copyright of _some characters_ belong to neilgaiman and terrypratchett… Marilyn Manson belongs to himself, unless he has already sold his soul to another entity.   
angst, NC-13, violence. 

Hastur had a major hand in the growth of Brian after the apocalypse. He hadn't the power to grant him superpowers, but he had arranged things for Brian so that everything worked out slightly in favour of him gaining superpowers.   
When Adam stepped down, he had changed certain things by their core nature (other than Aziraphale's bookstore), and that was first, his own status; second, Tadfield and third, the forementioned two, for the sake of repetition. He had wished for the world to remain as it was, ever-changing and destructive. And he had also wished for himself to never change. Therefore, by the time the rest of the Them were sixteen and reinventing goth parties with vampire role playing*, Adam tagged after them, commanding attention as always, even with his demeanour of an eleventh.   
As for Tadfield, it had never changed, because that was the way it had always been—Adam had loved it too much for it to become like the rest of the world. The population grew old, some died** occasionally, and some were paralysed and malfunctioning. But overall, nothing really changed—families were replaced by families that seemed all together similar to the previous lot.   
He hadn't anticipated the Them to change.   
They grew older, and discovered new things, such as computers and internet access. That, and body chocolate.   
Brian began dating a Girl, got dumped, was laughed at in school, and failed sports. Beezelbub spotted the perfect chance—Tadfield was a place of magic, with a very strong aura of love and henceforth distortion. The natural order in Tadfield wasn't exactly very natural indeed, especially since it changed so little in the ever-changing-more-and-more-rapidly world.   
And Brian himself was full of love and henceforth distortion.   
Beezelbub sent Hastur without informing Crowley until the Second Apocalypse came. The only reason that Satan didn't kick the demon's ass was because he sent useful footnotes back to hell occasionally, such as the wondrous disclaimer from computer packages which was widely applied in Hell. Besides, if Crowley was kept there, he would serve as a purposeful figurehead to distract Aziraphale, not that they meant it _that_ way***.   
Hastur had _arranged_ things, under the dictatorship of Beezelbub. 

It was said that Marilyn Manson came from America, but this widely-known lore was majorly faulty in this alternate plane of fangirl-universe. Yes, he came from Tadfield, under the special protection of Hastur which came under the specific dictatorship of Beezelbub which was all by the way part of the Ineffable Plan (AKA Great Plan#2, or _the_ plan of a plan).   
It was no wonder that they thought so, given that America seemed to think that the world rotated around itself, and that the whole world thought that it rotated around America. No sports player, except for a painfully wringed two, got on the top list of People Earning Most Endorsements if they had never played in America. Besides, Britain and France didn't think themselves as the rest of the world; they _were_ The World.   
Brian had, however, been moved to America for fame. Nobody knew the official reason, although Brian's family mumbled something about job opportunities.   
And so, leaving a crying Wensleydale and Pepper and Adam, he traveled off to the faraway land, much unknown by its slightly more Eastern counterpart. He had gotten drunk, discovered dope, found himself naked on the highway stranded in the middle of nowhere once, gotten fined and interrogated all the time, and somehow survived hitch-hiking despite the number of misfits that had occurred to him.   
And so, wretched and vengeful, Brian formed a band—the band that was to change the world. Or at least, rant about it impassively until it thought it was time to yell back and put him in jail.   
Marilyn Manson and the Spooky Kids. That was before it became shortchanged as Marilyn Manson, because people were too lazy to pronounce the other five syllables. 

Enough of plot development. Over at Crowley's side, he was wondering why Aziraphale was the first to inform him that the Second Apocalypse was near and not Hell. He was also having weird dreams, such as the one from Victorian times when he did some minor slaughtering.   
Which was generally… bad.   
Just as he was waking up to normal morning coffee, the phoneline to Hell was connected, and Crowley found the most unpleasant of voices speaking to him with static. According to the radio that day, Crowley was supposed to take care of the hell-cat they had just sent out, and no that is not meant to be an oxymoron, yes, Crowley's job was to take care of it until the Second Apocalypse came. Hastur was, afterall, a Duke and wasn't meant to be taking care of such minor things. Besides, he had a certain allergy to furballs.   
Cat? What cat? Crowley sat in his apartment for days, only to become slightly frustrated from too much coffee.   
Unfortunately, there was a local miscommunication. It seemed that they sent the message a moment too late, for the Satanic Hell-cat was already cradled in Aziraphale's arms by the time Crowley got to hear about it. So much for the red tapes leading up the corporate ladder. Someone had better re-install the phone lines and turn up the volume. Oh, and turn off the damn ansaphone, Crowley. 

The kitten's nose was slightly blackened, but it was still as adorable as possible. The fur was long, and it rubbed itself against Aziraphale's sweater, occasionally getting a few threads of knit unlocked in the process. For a moment it had seemed fascinated with Aziraphale's toenails, and then it got entangled in Aziraphale's checkered sweater, and then it embarked on an adventurous journey pertaining to kitten-food that Aziraphale had obtained from a nearby provision store.   
The kitten was happy. Really, it was. It would never have been so happy—after all, its job was to provide most unpleasantness in town. Of course, Aziraphale was slightly masochistic (and OOC), which explains all the happiness there was in the bookstore. Besides, the kitten was usually locked where the least damage was to be done—above the bookstore in the washroom, where all evils were quickly washed away with a hose.   
Aziraphale adored the kitten, and the kitten adored him. He sat cradling the kitten in his arms on the armchair, watching as it scratched the upholstery, and wondering if he should have given the kitten to Anathema. Afterall, witches never seemed complete without cats around them, pardonez moi for the cliché but that's the way it works. Besides, Aziraphale was certain that kids loved cats… And he was indeed worried about his first-pressing collection. 

Pepper hated her job. Or at least she thought she hated it. It was the utmost boring job in the whole wide world, she thought as she watched quite literally, as the world went by. Adam had just ran past again with Dog, and lodged himself in the storeroom.   
Somewhere in the kitchen someone was yelling, "Pepper, get him out of here!"   
"Adam," She muttered, annoyed. Somebody was worth more trouble than he was worth.   
When she was young she respected him. Now he just seemed like a worthless thug.   
'I'll give Young a what-for, missus, get him out of here…" ranted the voice.   
As Pepper ignored the voices and settled down to read a book at the restaurant table, ignoring the miser boss' stare and the yells emerging from the back of the cul-de-sac, she briefly wondered if her life was to be wasted in Tadfield. It was a small little place in the middle of nowhere, with nothing happening and no one emerging, except for a little pseudo-kid named Adam, and Wensleydale who studied accountancy.   
Pepper, Wensleydale and Adam were what was left of Them. The Johnsonites had disbanded, after the ever-so-endearing Greasy Johnson had attempted to send Pepper flowers on her birthday and got his rump inconveniently displaced. Meanwhile Anathema's three-year-old child, Macy, had endeared herself to the neighbourhood with her charm. As for Pepper herself, she had disobeyed her mother and got a job while flunking school altogether, and found that nothing was her cup of tea so far, even vampire-roleplaying.   
_ Especially_ vampire-roleplaying. Currently she was wearing a baby-tee, jacket and long jeans.   
"Pepper!" Yelled the agitated boss' voice, "There's a customer!"   
She looked up from her book and saw a young man stroll in, sunglasses on his nosebridge, his thick lips pursed in apprehension. She got up to pass him the menu, trying to break into a happy-business-smile-that-would-hopefully-keep-her-employed-until-her-mom-was-less-angry, when Dog dashed from between her footsteps, so that she tripped and fell.   
"Dog!" There was a shrill, agonised voice, and Adam crawled out from the storeroom.   
"A dead one once I get my hands on—" Pepper froze.   
Adam froze, too. And Dog was the only one animatedly leaping at the stranger, wagging his tail and barking cheerfully.   
"…Brian?" 

~~~~   
* thereby reinventing vampire roleplaying altogether.   
** but lived to a _really_ ripe old age, almost falling short of the early days in the bible. Recounted David, _those were the Good Old Days…_   
*** which, by the way, was indeed The Way it turned out. *cough* The scene where Aziraphale was jumping out of bed and running around Crowley's room naked while Crowley dreamt that he was a cat (the part after the prologue), to be specific. 

…O_o; I just realised… What sort of freak thinks that writing stories waaaay early in the morning with a cup of coffee is like breakfast? (Stomach complaining)   
C&C welcomed.^_^ 


	6. five-company

**Shallow Sleep [five-Company]**   
Monday, August 19, 2002 8:22:23 AM   
hidoko Matsumoto (aka v0id)   
email: voidmatsumoto@yahoo.co.uk   
archive: if you really want, please ask. Scheduled to be at http://xz0ne.cjb.net   
pairing: Crowley x Aziraphale, appearance of Marilyn Manson (without the Spooky Kids).   
notes: I feel sick. Literally. And I think Adam is going to be entirely OOC… 

Disclaimer: of course, my writing sucks, and copyright of _some characters_ belong to neilgaiman and terrypratchett… Marilyn Manson belongs to himself, unless he has already sold his soul to another entity. 

_"i need to wash myself again to hide all the dirt and pain i'd be scared that there's nothing underneath and who are my real friends? have they all got the bends? am I really sinking this low?"_   
_-the bends. Radiohead_

Crowley stirred the thick brown mud, and sighed heavily when he thought of Aziraphale. The angel was always coming to his mind. But he should have learnt to endure it long ago.   
He flipped through a copy of Dracula, and thought miserably, damning comments and such of the like were always made, and they were right. He would have been ashamed to admit that he hadn't created Gothic Literature (which did cause unrest) until Hell awarded him on its own accord.   
But that was a long time ago.   
The Adversary and the Duke of Hell were pretty much annoyed with him. Well, they made him uncomfortable too. Two can play the game.   
But first, something needed to be sorted out. He drank the mud, and noted next time he should wish a bit more sugar inside. This time, however, there was no time to waste. 

Brian took off his sunglasses, blinked, and blinked, and blinked.   
"You haven't changed the least bit, did you?" Grinned Pepper, "I'll call Wensley. He'll be happy to see you around again."   
"We're having a vampire gathering again?" Adam looked cheerful as he pranced around, "I'm sure Greasy Johnson would like to come, too."*   
Pepper looked at Adam as if he had three eyes, and turned back to Brian, "You're looking good today. Just eyeliner and no lipstick. You never did look good with lipstick. Makes your lips look bloated."   
"…Pepper?" Brian blinked, "…Adam?"   
"What are you doing with fur? Weren't we trying to save whales the other time?" Adam looked disapprovingly at Brian.   
Brian looked guiltily at his furcoat, "It came from white foxes."   
"Oh, alright, I suppose foxes are okay. I read they eat crops and rabbits an' all that." Adam said dismissively, and Dog barked.   
Pepper smiled, and gestured towards the kitchen, "So, do you want anything? Staff discount is twenty percent."   
"Who said he could have staff discount?" Growled the boss, saliva dripping from his lips as he stuffed a burger into his mouth, "It's the usual price, with ten percent service charge."   
"Alright," Brian said with a sigh, and turned to Pepper, "What do you have?" 

Aziraphale had no idea where the hell Tadfield was, but somehow found a taxi that was ready to take him and the kitten all the way without extra surcharge. The driver was bouncing along to Bach's "Fat Bottomed Girls", and even Aziraphale's head bobbed up and down with a smile hung on it.   
The kitten lay snuggled in Aziraphale's lap, and had given up trying to dislodge its claws from the red vest, which Aziraphale had been wearing often. Aziraphale held it carefully; it was the first time he'd noticed that it was a fragile little life, made of bones and blood and meat. He would never have understood what it was like to live, he thought, staring at the kitten, even if six thousand years on earth had made him somewhat acquainted to such lifestyle.   
Bones and blood and meat.   
Angels were, too, except in a more ethereal sort of way. After they died you don't have to clean up the mess; they just sort of faded away, their skin turning translucent, if there was any skin left in the first place.   
Half-transparent skin was always beautiful, Aziraphale remembered, or so the Metatron had said.   
Halfway down the causeway, a Bentley zoomed sleekly through the maze of cars, and eventually zoomed in front of it. Aziraphale waved desperately at it, and somewhere down the causeway the familiar Bentley had stopped.   
"Where to, Sir?" Aziraphale said with a smile, as the owner of the car got out and walked towards him. The kitten had dislodged itself and sat in Aziraphale's arms.   
"I was going to ask you that."   
Maybe it was the brown morning gross thing that seemed to perk him up better than cocaine.   
"I thought you were still…" Aziraphale blushed, gesturing, "Angry, or something."   
Crowley smiled, perfectly sober, "I'm not."   
"Then why were you…?"   
"You were, too, weren't you?"   
"Well, I admit I was at one point of time, but you didn't have to be too, you know."   
"Alright," Crowley retreated back to his Bentley, which was miraculously unscathed in the passing mayhem of the causeway, "Tadfield?"   
"How do you know?"   
"It's _the_ place of all evils. I suppose that's where all the clues are—at least, that's where we _could_ start." 

Ten minutes later, a brownie with some slushy vanilla ice cream was plopped onto the table. Brian picked up the teaspoon automatically and began plowing through.   
"I don't believe it. You went to America, sang some songs, and became a millionaire?"   
"You'll believe anything if you've seen them at a concert," Brian waved a hand, "Or read any of my interviews."   
"Yeah, they actually believed that you were born in America," Pepper grinned, "If only they knew that Magic The Gathering originated from the Johnsonites."**   
"They're ready to believe anything like that. If you see anyone great, just tell them they're either born in France or America. Britain yes, but only in London—never Tadfield." Brian sipped his cup of coffee, and sighed with pleasure.   
"Yeah, who is to say what has happened in France and America?" Adam shook his head, "Hitler is bad."   
"Yeah, but it would be so much fun to pretend to be him. After all, he's well known for everything, like the Holocaust."   
"Er…" Pepper raised an eyebrow.   
"And the Golf War. I never thought Bushie was good in Golf until my dad said one day he dealt with it well. I mean, they always get stuck in them," said Adam.   
"And there's always Mussolini. He inspired Hitler to wash all the Jews," Brian added enthusiastically.   
"That's an italian food isn't it? And Jews sure rhymes with chew. Sounds like one of those cheesy commercials where the whole family gets diarrhea 'cause of funny kids dancing about."***   
"I'm sure they're delicious," Mumbled Pepper, who decided that the conversation was going nowhere. Afterall, this wasn't meant to be a school textbook; school texts are bound to have the facts slightly more _wrong_, and are always told with a straight face.   
"Anything is better than this slushy ice cream," replied Brian, who was stirring remnants of the brownie. Occasional bits of brown bricks could be seen floating in vanilla sludge. 

_ And stop it. _It was a general agreement that was unsaid.   
Crowley and Aziraphale arrived at Anathema's house soon enough. Macy held the kitten delicately, and smiled up at Aziraphale.   
"I think she likes you," grinned Anathema.   
"She likes _everybody_," supplied Newt helpfully as Crowley looked away.   
The kitten mewed.   
"So what should we call it?"   
"I nunno," replied Macy, as she gently stroked its fur, "Adam names his Dog. Should we name her Cat?"   
"It's a _he_, Macy," said Anathema matter-of-factly when the kitten turned itself upside down with its claws stuck in Macy's sweater, "and I'm sure he wants more identity. What about… Gray?"   
"Or Zen," Aziraphale said, revealing his hours of deep pondering, "I've been thinking about it. Zen's a kind of architecture with black and white décor, and it's black and white all over."   
The kitten mewed.   
"Zen," said Macy, "Zen zen zen. I wike you, Zen."   
"Wait, I suppose we do have angel foodcakes somewhere in the house, right?" Crowley said with a smile.   
"Why, I don't think we do…" Newt looked thoughtful.   
"You do. Go check in the pantry," replied Anathema, who had caught Crowley's _look_.   
"Angel?" Macy bounced up, and the kitten's head bobbed up and down. "I wanna see!"   
"Come with us," said Anathema, pulling Newt by the arm.   
"I finally realized, Crowley, how to be your friend. It's endless indifference," Aziraphale said with a smile on his face.   
Silence. Aziraphale sipped his tea slowly, when suddenly Crowley twitched, and he stood up, his brows furrowed. "I think I want to go back."   
Moments later, when Macy came in with a fond Newt and Anathema, and filled the room with warmth, Aziraphale had smiled, and politely excused himself. He wandered across Tadfield, across a plain and the gentle hill slopes, away, into the faraway forest that seemed to invite him to confession.   
It wasn't that Anathema and company weren't nice. They're nice, but… Aziraphale stared morosely into the cup of tea that had been served to him. The house just wasn't the same without Crowley. 

* in more ways than one, especially when Pepper was involved.   
** Please don't sue me. Where will literature be without satire and commentary on grassroot consumerism, aye? Besides, nobody sued the author of JTHM who mentioned all the funky taco outlets.   
*** Please don't kill me, Jhonen Vasquez! It wasn't me! It was the monkeys and the evil Elmo! 


	7. six-angel of masoc

**Shallow Sleep [six-angel of Masoc]**   
Tuesday, August 20, 2002 2:07:07 AM   
hidoko Matsumoto (aka v0id)   
email: voidmatsumoto@yahoo.co.uk   
archive: if you really want, please ask. Scheduled to be at http://xz0ne.cjb.net   
pairing: Crowley x Aziraphale, Crowley x Crowley   
notes: I'm sleepy. Why ain't I sleeping? Hmm… There is room for answer. (I wanna write about Islington someday…) I think there's major OOC around too… 

Disclaimer: Yes, I disclaim everything that might get my ass sued.   
NC-17-kind-of-slash-more-or-less-so-i-think-maybe-just-NC-13-afterall 

_"angels are an absolute minority of masochists"_   
_–hyde, the mechanical amnoitic fluid_

Aziraphale twirled and twirled, until he sank down knee-deep into the field, the vast greenery tickling his skin, as his ice-blue eyes lifted to match the sky.   
He closed his eyes, and felt the ground enveloping him. 

_ And thus he sank into darkness. He watched as the tender frills of it leapt at him, welcoming him with fanged smile, and he knew that he had come home. He had laughed, and embraced it with love, and allowed it to kiss him with soft lips, slimy tongue. Fangs sank into his skin gently, and slid off his throat altogether._   
_ A laughter surfaced as if the throat had been tickled._   
Memories of it shouldn't have haunted him, because memories gradually became faded. The lips that parted to reveal a horrid cave, wet and warm inside, and painful, painful as if he had been devoured… The protrusion that crept under his skin, rendering him helpless, penetrating him from the inner core…   
He rubbed at his skin, wishing for the remnants of the world to fade, to fade away…   
Of that night.   
He was sure his consciousness had been saying, _please, Aziraphale, stop, you know you have to. It's not right, all the things that's going on, I mean, it's Crowley—he's a friend—and he'll never speak to you again when you're sober. You'll have to stop, or you'll fall like he did. You don't want to fall, you want to love and care, demons can't do good like you can…_   
He hadn't stopped. Reason had failed, and he gave way to the heated breath that permeated through him. 

The plants stared at Crowley as he rampaged his way into the apartment, picked a random pot of plant, and smashed it against the ground with a smile on his face. The fit hadn't stopped, and for a moment the plants seemed to forget how to live as they watched, this time right in front of them, the consciousness of their kind fade out in gasps for help.   
Those golden eyes flared, and laughter rang aloud in the house, threatening to disembowel every existence that lay in that very room.   
As soon as it stopped, Crowley wished the plant back in place, and watched as it trembled before bursting into luxuriant shades of green.   
"Is this how it had been for me, too?" He whispered to the plant, plucking a leaf off a branch and tearing it apart with sharp fingernails, "My wings, that has always been crying out to me even as I live here?"   
He laughed again, and clenched his fist.   
When he released his grip, leaves flew out like shattered glass, reflecting a diminutive ray of light from the shaded window.   
The plants watched as wings burst out from Crowley's body, slowly and painfully, like butterflies struggling from cocoons, and he touched them gently, to cry out in pain.   
The tears came… But he knew it wasn't because of his heart, it was, it was, the pain from the wings that had materialized. 

_ The little boy, Adam, wandered into the field, with Dog galloping after him._   
_ "Angel."_   
_ Aziraphale glanced up, and smiled instantly upon seeing the Antichrist-that-was, "You haven't grown the least bit."_   
_ "I know. I made that wish," he sat down beside where Aziraphale lay, and crossed his legs, "I wished to stay the same, and I did."_   
_ "…Yeah."_   
_ "Don't you wish sometimes that you have never grown up, Angel? I know how that is, I'm stuck here forever, but that's okay," Adam said, as Dog licked his hand, "That's okay."_   
_ "Yes… I guess I do," Aziraphale smiled, and touched Adam's forehead, brushing away a strand, "I would rather be a younger soul."_   
_ "Yes. Souls are like whales, you can't save them because they destroy it."_   
_ "…They?"_   
_ "Adults," Adam said, twirling a lock of hair, "Adults think they've got it made, they think they're in charge of everything. They put you in bed for running to circuses, they punish you for enjoying yourself."_   
_ "Ah, but Mr Young looks like a nice person, I mean, he's one of our people…"_   
_ "Your people? They're wolves in skin sheep. He told me about the wolf dressing up in sheep skin to try and eat the young of the sheep. I think adults are like that. If I could, I would have undone my wish. I don't want change, or eternity. I want an end. You know how stories always do have an ending? Seems like around here, people do some marrying here and there, but nothing ever ends because they die, and another one comes in, and they die, too. So you keep replacing them."_   
_ "Yes." Aziraphale refrained from saying, Just like God. He understood why many humans fell, and why many humans chose the way they did. Because there were simply too many boundaries that you had to keep to when you love._   
_ "And I didn't ask to be born, did I?" Adam laughed at this, and pointed at the sky, "Look, angel! That looks like the demon. What's his name? I forgot…"_   
_ "Crowley," Aziraphale murmured, as he watched the cloud fly by. It looked more like a bat than anything else._   
_ Dog began chasing a butterfly._   
_ "Dog, come back here!"_   
_ Adam climbed onto his feet, and chased the mongrel, laughing as he went by, leaving Aziraphale lying on the grass, eyes closed, breathing even the way sleepers do._   
_ "Have a hell of a time, Angel, while you're here!" He yelled, footsteps slowing as he turned to glance back at the angel._   
_ And laughter tinkled as he ran away._

When Aziraphale woke up, he found that he was tucked safely in his armchair back in his own lovely little bookstore.   
There was one more thing that he wanted to do, he thought. Crowley had done it for him before, way before, in the Victorian ages…   
Would Crowley do it again for him? 

The demon's eyes were wide as he stared at the angel who stood at the doorway, and watched as Aziraphale's eyes began to widen.   
"Crowley, what are you doing?"   
He laughed, fangs flickering in the view, "Don't you have any idea? You're always so innocent, aren't you?"   
Aziraphale shook his head, with compassion, "No, Crowley. Stop it."   
"Why? I've fallen long ago, there's no one who can defile me other than myself…" He laughed again, "But Aziraphale, stay, and I'll unfold the secrets to you. All that you've ever thought of but dared not tread, you shall unravel, if you will stay."   
"You said that to the pope, didn't you? To people like Raspurtin?"   
Crowley nodded, a finger pressed against his lips. Thin strands, like a spider's web, trailed and snapped after the finger which traveled away. "Isn't it a blessing? To come to earth and be a body here."   
"Stop, Crowley…"   
"You wouldn't understand, would you? To be an angel is to be devoid of all emotions, to restrain yourself and hurt yourself. But when you're a demon you enjoy everything, you enjoy emotions, you enjoy feeling, you enjoy even being hurt because you enjoy hurting." The finger trailed down towards Crowley's wings, to carress it gently. He gasped, body twitching in horrid pain as the touch ensured into grips, and moans came rushing like a tidal wave.   
"No…"   
"…nn…"   
"Crowley, stop it…! I'm sorry, alright? I'm sorry I ever used the Sword, I'm sorry, I'm sorry… I didn't mean to…!"   
"…nnn….a. .." The demon's lips split into long red strands, "…Aaa…"   
"Stop…! Crowley! Crowley!"   
Aziraphale watched in horror as Crowley's hands enveloped himself, while his hip thrust and his body trembled, the wings seeming to burst into bright shades of bloom with the refraction of light on the wings clotted with sweat. It was a long time, a very long and painful time, as Aziraphale tried to find strength in his knees, but always found with each attempt, that he failed.   
"…A-aaah!"   
"Crow…"   
The demon rose to his feet, tongue flicking out to lick those hands, "See, Aziraphale? This was what I did to you the other day. Wasn't it painful? But isn't pain the most universal sensation that could exist, Angel?"   
"…No…"   
"Pain and reality go together. You can't deny that." Crowley pressed his body close to the angel's, wings wrapping around him.   
"Crowley—" Tears rolled down the angel's cheeks unmistakably, and Crowley laughed for the last time.   
"You've done it to me before, remember? Long ago. To all the demons that stood in your way. Who do you think you are, to cause so much hurt and pain in all of us, so why should I stop? I can't defile myself anymore than you have. At least it's willing, at least I fell because I wished to. But you—"   
Sobs filled the room as Crowley paused, drawing in a breath that he had forgotten to breathe but needed to articulate, to tilt the angel's chin upwards so that he faced him.   
"—You have no idea what it's like. What's to be called yours."   
"Crowley… Stop." The angel glanced up, his eyes tearing, "I know. I know."   
"See these wings? They're the very ones that you tore and healed, angel. I must say even the Iron Maiden couldn't win in a torturing contest compared to this. At least, when you die, you die. But to kill and resurrect, and to install the memory of dying—I must say Heaven wins hands down, wouldn't they? Of course they would."   
"Stop… Kill me, Crowley, if it satisfies you…"   
"It wouldn't… Nothing will satisfy me, angel," this time, Crowley had said it without a hint of malice in his voice, and he gathered the angel into his embrace, lips meeting lips.   
"What will?" Aziraphale whispered, resting his head against Crowley's collarbone, feeling its protrusion digging into his own flesh. "Crowley, even if I die…?"   
"You can't die, we all know that." Crowley smiled, "You're seeking salvation, Aziraphale. You want me to kill you because to live on with a body that has been defiled hurts you like anything."   
"…"   
"And I wouldn't kill you, Aziraphale. You'll live on with it, and see how it feels like to dream about it everytime you try to escape."   
  



	8. seven-angel of light

**Shallow Sleep [seven-angel of light]**   
Thursday, August 22, 2002 2:50:08 PM   
hidoko Matsumoto (aka v0id)   
email: voidmatsumoto@yahoo.co.uk   
archive: if you really want, please ask. Scheduled to be at http://xz0ne.cjb.net   
notes: This is version 3.0 of the series which I wrote… the symbol "angel of light" has been used like countless of times, and I'm too lazy to give new names, so I figured what the heck. 

Disclaimer: Yay! There is no need for this part.^_^; 

_"Angel of Light v3.0"_

_the endless chasm so near and cold like death_   
_envelopes the incongruous twins and suffocates_   
_with its dark warmth and gentility_   
_bringing with despair dreams of hope_

_the day when my soul split apart_   
_you held a flame that cleansed all that_   
_came unto it, salvation seekers_   
_and you installed the memory of purity_

_with the fluttering warmth of feathery light being_   
_I embraced you as if we were once_   
_one that embraced all, universe, stars,_   
_constellations, and non-existence_

_born in a same day and separated by fate_   
_I chose my way into that chasm_   
_and you remained in the light_   
_you held a flame and cleansed all_

_all that I would soon become_

_a lone soul that courses through_   
_what would have been called the night_   
_freed only in dreams where one could be_   
_wandering among the stars and memories thereof_

_all that I would be, because I chose_

_you installed the memory of purity_   
_but alas! The gulf is wide yet!_   
_the separator was drawn carefully boldly_   
_between the chasm and reality itself_

_you walk among the living with your sword_   
_footsteps light with innocence,_   
_eyes bright with love and compassion_   
_you walk among the dead with your flames_   
_cleansing all that were soon to be_

_wandering among the stars and memories thereof_   
_despair drove in deeper than love_   
_a result of nostalgia is endless pain_   
_which culminates from dreams of hope_

_hope that my soul of darkness_   
_would one day meet with yours of light_


	9. eight-the machines of god#1

**Shallow Sleep [eight-the machines of God#1]**   
Thursday, August 22, 2002 2:03:44 PM   
hidoko Matsumoto (aka v0id)   
email: voidmatsumoto@yahoo.co.uk   
archive: if you really want, please ask. Scheduled to be at http://xz0ne.cjb.net   
pairing: Crowley x Aziraphale, appearance of Marilyn Manson (without the Spooky Kids).   
notes: Life is full of irony. I think I spend more money on doctors than food, and they gave me multi vitamins. O_o; It's a dilemma having to choose between calling Marilyn Manson either the first name or the last. It's all too symbolic, but for the sake of convenience… Heck it!^_^ 

Disclaimer: Sigh. Don't sue me. Actually I have nothing to lose so I don't care if you do.   
NC-13—reading Dracula takes its toll. OOCness for everyone.^_^; 

Crystalline. The tears that rolled down Aziraphale's cheeks were crystalline, and perfect. A lovely drop of sorrow with ages embedded in, ages and ages of hope and despair, of sin and salvation…   
"I wouldn't kill you, Aziraphale," Crowley held him tighter, as if he could press the angel into himself, and be whole again, "You'll live on with it. Don't ask me anymore, angel. You're perfect and sinless…"   
_ As you are, covered with whips slashed by time across your heart, across your soul, till you've bled your all of your tears…_   
_ Till you've lost all your faith and love, and is nothing but a chunk of meat, bloody and raw, being scrutinized at a market._   
"I'll never win you if we fight, and you know that."   
"I wouldn't fight you," whispered the angel with a hoarse voice. "If it satisfies you, Crowley… Imprint the memory of pain on me, forever. If I did it to so many of you…"   
The long, thin fingers trembled as they reached up Aziraphale's neck, and fangs pressed by the vein, causing blood to bleed. Blood that would have been deemed as a human's, but was as holy as the love that Crowley fed on.   
"If it can cause me as much pain as I caused them…" He closed his eyes, as he felt himself floating away, away from the body as if he was the essence of life itself, and felt himself flowing into Crowley, as if they were once meant to be this way, as if once upon a time their blood mingled as one.   
Crowley lifted his chin from the angel's neck, crimson tears dripping wet in a faint blossom on his mouth.   
"…" The angel bit his lower lips, and refrained from crying aloud, as he drifted away… 

_ Aziraphale woke up to find himself lying on the plain. He opened his eyes and turned his head, to see Adam lying down beside him, watching the clouds roll by._   
_ "It looks more like a bat," he heard himself say._   
_ "No, look at that bit over there. The entire bit of that part of the sky."_   
_ Aziraphale found himself looking at a larger part of the puzzle, and smiled, "Yes, this face looks like Crowley."_   
_ "Look, it's drifting away!"_   
_As clouds drift away it changed shape, and the sky gradually became only a sky, nothing else._

As Aziraphale woke up, a moan escaped from his pale lips. The body was drained of blood and energy, and so Aziraphale found it increasingly difficult to move. He tried to lift his hand to brush away the clump of hair that fell into his eyes, but even this attempt faltered.   
Crowley watched from where he sat, his brows furrowed.   
"…I saw you, Crowley." Aziraphale finally managed, "Until I woke."   
"It doesn't matter now," He said, lowering his head, "It's all the same."   
"…Do you see me as less of an existence than you are, Crowley?" Aziraphale buried his face into the pillow, and wept. The tears flooded the pillow, while the bed shook gently with the body as if it was the air surrounding a trembling leaf.   
"…No," Crowley remained where he was, and spoke truthfully, "…You're always a perfect angel."   
Silence.   
Crowley reached for a knife, and, dragging the tip across his wrist, watched wryly as the blood spilled in an almost frantic manner away from this mortal shell. He pressed it against Aziraphale's lips, lips which had been drained of blood and had turned a sickly hue.   
Aziraphale shook his head, lips curling into a smile.   
The deep red trickled off Aziraphale's lips, onto his neck, and soaked into the pillow. The osmosis was a fresh, pure red.   
Crowley gradually withdrew his wrist, a pained expression sneaking onto his face and stealing his composure. "Why, angel…?"   
The angel lay there, eyes closed, heartbeat slowly fading. 

A Bentley swerved into Tadfield, and a man clad in black leather pants wearing a pair of sunglasses, got out. He pursed his lips slightly as he adjusted the glasses, and stepped onto the pavement after a thoughtful pause. He had dark hair, looked as if he needed a shave, and was incredibly, painfully, beautiful.   
Brian almost froze when he saw this man.   
He watched as this man stepped into the suspicious house of Anathema, and found himself smitten.   
"Who is that, Pepper?"   
"Friend of Anathema's?" Suggested Wensleydale, who pushed his glasses up his nose to get a better look.   
Pepper grinned, and nudged him in the ribs, "I have no idea, but he sure is hot. Reckon we could drop by Anathema's?"   
Adam looked up, and noted, "The angel isn't with him."   
"I'm sure Anathema wouldn't mind, would she?" Pepper said enthusiastically, as she got ready to skip out of her workplace.   
"Hey, come back here!" Yelled the boss.   
"As soon as I'm done," Pepper grinned cheerfully.   
"Suddenly I'm into vampire roleplaying again."   
"Wait a minute," Brian paused thoughtfully, and whipped out from his handbag a stick of black lipstick and another of black eyeliner, "We shouldn't go unarmed."   
"_Hell_ yeah!" Pepper bounced her way towards the washroom after Brian.   
"Can I have some, pretty please?" Adam begged. 

Brian with makeup wasn't Brian. He was Marilyn Manson. He was the one who was desired, and he would get whatever he desired, no questions asked.* As the crew knocked on Anathema's door and stepped into the house, he cleared his throat, and waited expectantly for all eyes to be on him. However, this wasn't America, or anyplace else—it was Tadfield, the middle of nowhere.   
Crowley conveniently ignored them all as Anathema greeted them with a welcoming smile on her face.   
"Adam!" Grinned Macy, as she pounced onto the boy. Dog sniffed the air, turned suddenly at Zen, and growled.   
"No, Dog!" Came anguished cries as Macy scooped up the kitten and Adam scooped up Dog. "Bad boy, Dog! Any friend of Macy's is a friend, you hear me? Bad, bad boy!"   
Dog lowered its head, and whimpered. Natural instincts were natural instincts, after all.   
"Er," Newt's grin froze as he confronted the makeup-mosnters, "Trick or treat, isn't it? Heh. Heh."   
Anathema gave him a look, and smiled at the not-really-kids. "Brian! Pepper! Wensley—"   
"And Adam." Adam grinned up at her, and gave her a kiss on her hand. He had been Macy's sole companion for years now, given that the Them had grown up and there weren't many kids in the neighbourhood.   
Manson strutted towards the newcomer, and, smiling at him, sat down beside him on the couch.   
"I haven't seen you around, but then again, it's been a long time since I was in Tadfield." He gestured melodramatically, "If I may know who you are?"   
"Crowley," replied the stranger, "Anthony J Crowley."   
"Ah. That's a… pretty… name." Manson ignored the coughing he heard from behind him, and the exclusive bitching from the Them about him monopolizing the new visitor, "It must be quite interesting to meet someone who finally matches your dress sense, isn't it? And behold. My name is… Marilyn Manson."   
Crowley pushed his sunglasses down, and, being unable to resist the temptation, gave Manson a Glare of Utter Unholiness that would have sent any local peeing in his pants.   
Manson merely laughed, "Those are nice contacts. I usually wear them, _tastefully_ done, of course.**"   
Finally the Them couldn't take it anymore. Here they were, letting Brian take over all the limelight. Afterall, they were sure he'd had enough in Las Vegas, where all those funny neon sparkles came from.   
"And I am Melon Collie and the Infinite Pepper,***" Chirped in Pepper.   
"Wensleydale, but they call me Wensley," Pepper nudged him, and Wensleydale added, desperately, "The Lord of Vampires."   
"Oh," Crowley murmured, inching away from the teens as much as possible.   
"Well, I play my violin a little in my dark lair," supplied Wensleydale, "And I drink from the blood of, er, my hapless victims."   
"And my mom does occult stuff," Pepper grinned.   
"Dog can chase his tail," Adam chirped in, "When he bites it we all laugh at him."   
"And I am the Antichrist," Manson gave Crowley what he percieved to be the Knowing Smile, "Antichrist Superstar."   
Crowley raised an eyebrow from behind the sunglasses, and inched further away from them, "Oh. Gee. It's been… interesting." 

~~~~   
* including money-back guarantee.   
** Please don't choke on the irony that is prevalent in some parts of the dialogues… I admit, much of a fan as I am, cough, cough, I enjoy sarcasm as much as the guy does, only in a different way. So… Mouwahahaha. OOC-ness is always interesting.^_^ Besides, _taste_ is subjective.   
*** The most Smashing of Pumpkins, please forgive me. Yours truly couldn't resist it, lame as it was.   
Saturday, August 24, 2002 3:25:57 AM 


End file.
